


I wanna hold your hand

by kate_the_reader



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Competence, Fluff, Food Porn, Jewelry, M/M, Time Travel, dreamshare, newish relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 19:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11561490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: What if dreams were playgrounds to try out new skills? It's Cobb's idea, and Arthur and Eames agree to try it out.





	I wanna hold your hand

**Author's Note:**

> My second four-trope bingo fic: time travel, jewelry, food porn, competence

It’s Cobb’s idea. He wants to make dreamshare less dangerous, as befits a man who has just got his kids and his life back.

Eames isn’t sure it will take off. The very rich are generally more ready to pay for advantage than for simple entertainment, but he and Arthur are feeling their way together and it might be good to have a break from high-stakes international crime that could leave them dead. So he is willing to at least try it. If it is a failure, or if working with Cobb again is the bad idea it had seemed at the end of that insane job, they’ll walk away and leave him to it.

The idea, as he lays it out in his backyard while his kids play with their new puppy and Arthur sits lazy-eyed and slightly rumpled next to Eames, is this: create dreamscapes for paying customers to use as playgrounds, fantasies come true. Let them experience something they would otherwise simply have to read about and imagine. The research will be interesting, building the spaces a challenge. 

And there will be less shooting and danger and fear of losing Arthur forever. And that’s something Eames needs right now, having finally got him to himself. And given his own heart.

Arthur, when they talk about it later, in the car, as they make dinner, as they lie in bed (all of which are almost impossible to believe are really happening), agrees. He’s more willing to give Cobb the benefit of the doubt, and he would also like to stay here, at home, after so long running. 

They agree that the idea needs work, testing, refinement. Cobb wants to try building again. Arthur and Eames have a vehement disagreement over that — their first real one, but they come out of it okay, which is a huge relief to them both. Arthur argues that it’s a low-stakes way for Cobb to see if he still has what it takes, that it won’t really matter if he uses memory and history to create a world, and Eames has reluctantly to agree. They’re not going into a stranger’s head to steal anything, even if Cobb’s probably fucked-up subconscious isn’t really appealing.

It’ll take a while, though, so he and Arthur have time to themselves, and Eames feels like he can never get enough of time together. There are days they don’t bother to get out of bed, exploring each other’s bodies and minds, talking and not-talking until the light is dim.

But finally, they get a call. Cobb has a space ready to be tested. He’s never letting a PASIV in his house again, so they agree they’ll do it at their place, in the unfurnished spare bedroom. He buys a few pool loungers, to make Arthur laugh. Cobb’s told them it’s Paris (of course it is) in the 1890s. The idea is that they each choose a persona they’d like to try out. Not a forge, just a side of themselves they don’t get much chance to explore.

“Darling,” says Eames, still giddy with delight every time Arthur smiles at him in response, “shall we surprise each other?”

“Yeah, okay,” says Arthur, all his dimples out at once. “I have something I’d like to try …”

In the few moments they could bear to be apart, they have each been refining what they need to test Cobb’s idea. 1890s Paris will do fine, Eames thinks, for his plan. He wonders what Arthur has planned, and what insights he will glean. He wants to know everything Arthur is willing to show him. And of course, what will Arthur learn about him in the dreamscape? He doesn't want to keep secrets anymore. They did that for far too long. 

When the day arrives, he feels oddly nervous. They haven't been under since the long flight, neither having any appetite for unreality, or for criminality. And neither needing money. Saito had been generous as only a man who can afford to buy an airline on a whim can be. 

Arthur gets the PASIV out of the spare room closet where he’d pushed it months ago. Cobb has obtained Somnacin from someone he and Arthur trust. Eames trusts Arthur. They debate what song they will use for a musical cue, as that worked well last time. Their previous choice is not an option, for various very obvious reasons. Eames suggests _I Wanna Hold Your Hand_ , sharing a look with Arthur that earns them a headshake from Cobb, but he doesn't have a better idea, and agrees it’ll stand out, at least. Arthur reaches for his hand when Cobb’s distracted.

Finally, when they can no longer dither over details, Arthur opens the case. Everything is just as he left it, when he cleaned it all those months ago. He sets it on a low table in the center of their ring of chairs, unrolls the tubing. Cobb measures the Somnacin, double and triple checking. This is something they used to do all the time, with hardly a thought for the consequences. Back before they understood just how terrible the risks were. _When we were stupid_ , Eames thinks.

“Lie down, Eames,” Arthur tells him. He settles himself in the lounger and gives Arthur his wrist. The memory of the last time they did this is bittersweet. Bitter because of all that followed. Sweet because of all they told each other in that moment. All they said, however banal their words were. Arthur’s not sentimental in the same way Eames is, so he doesn't repeat himself, although his words echo in Eames’ mind as he inserts the line. He gives Eames his hand, wrist upturned, to ask for the same service. Eames slips the needle in, Arthur’s eyes widening slightly at the pinch. His hands aren't shaking too badly, Eames thinks. In the other chair, Cobb inserts his own line, seemingly oblivious to their tension. If he feels his own tension, and he must, surely, he hides it well. 

“Ready?” Cobb says, his voice betraying, at last, that he is far from unaffected.

“I guess,” says Arthur, not taking his eyes off Eames.

“As I’ll ever be,” says Eames, returning the look. 

*

The cafe they’re sitting in is dim and smoky in a way no public room has been topside for years. Someone is playing a poorly tuned piano and several drinkers have glasses of greenish alcohol before them. 

They are all wearing soft, dark suits. Eames orders coffees and they agree to meet back here in an hour. This visit is a simple reconnaissance, nothing fancy, and they only put five minutes on the timer, none of them ready to risk more, yet. 

“Right,” Eames says, pushing back his chair, “back here in an hour. _Au revoir!_ ” 

Arthur watches him with a faint frown. They’ve been together almost constantly for months.

At the door, he is handed a straw boater hat from a groaning hat-rack. He likes its jauntiness. He turns left when he steps into the street and walks swiftly to his destination. The distance is blurry, as if in a slightly smeared painting, but the close-up details seem clear enough.

“ _Bonjour, chef_!” he is greeted in the kitchen of the small restaurant.

“ _Bonjour, ça va?_ ” he returns, hanging up his hat and coat and buttoning on a chef’s white jacket. 

Eames loves good food. He enjoys eating it, and he likes cooking, when he gets a chance, and he’s thought he’d like to try creating the sort of food top restaurants serve. But when he had this idea and did a bit of research, it wasn't in a historical setting. So perhaps he’s going to baffle Paris rather than dazzling. “It’s just a dream,” he reminds himself. “It’s just a favour to Cobb, of all people.” He certainly would never have agreed to do this on his own, without Arthur. But now what is important to Arthur is important to him, too.

He looks around the kitchen. Shining copper pans line the shelves, chefs stand hunched over the workbenches, chopping, or at the ranges, stirring.

“This way, sir.” He follows the underling to a marble-topped counter away from the stoves, in a cooler part of the kitchen. The pastry chef’s domain. There’s a huge bowl of eggs, a pitcher of cream, lemons, jars of flour and sugar, a mound of butter on an earthenware dish. 

“Very good. Thank you,” he says, and the other man returns to his tasks.

In that slightly confusing way of all dreams, normal and created, he can't quite understand his role, yet. But he’s clearly expected to make a dessert. A simple lemon tart might suffice, if he had the time. But mindful of the ticking timer in their spare room in LA, he decides on something less time-consuming from the same ingredients and sets to work. 

His lemon mousse is chilling in bowl of ice in a cool larder, his tiny crisp shortbread rounds, enlivened by a good grinding of black pepper, are cooling on a rack when he hears it:

“Oh yeah I tell you somethin'  
I think you'll understand …”

And as he opens his eyes back in the spare room, The Beatles sing:

“Oh please say to me  
You'll let me be your man …”

Arthur is sitting up already, a mixture of concern and irritation on his face. It’s not a look Eames likes, or has seen lately.

“Where the hell were you, Eames? We were supposed to meet back at the cafe first.”

 _Damn_. “Darling, I got too absorbed. I’m sorry!”

Arthur softens at once. “That’s okay. It’s not like it was dangerous, I guess.” He reaches for Eames’ hand and carefully takes out the cannula, holds his thumb over the drop of blood that seeps up.

“I’m sorry,” Eames says again, as in the third chair Cobb clears his throat.

“Um, guys? Reportback? How was it?”

“Fine, great! Actually quite a lot of fun,” Eames has to concede.

“Yeah, me too,” says Arthur. “Lots of great details, Dom. Must have been fun to build.”

“It was! I love building. I missed it.” His triumphant grin fades into wistfulness. “There are a few things I can improve, though. When can you test it again?” he says.

“Anytime, right Eames? We’re not busy.” Arthur’s eyes are sparkling with enthusiasm, and Eames has to admit, he’s also eager to revisit. He’s got a bit more research to do before though. He wishes he knew what Arthur was up to in the dream, but he supposes he'll have to be patient. 

After they see Cobb out, Arthur reaches up and brushes something from Eames’ jaw, rubbing white dust between his fingers with a smirk, but he doesn't say anything. 

*

The next time they go under, Eames is more prepared. He’s worked out things he can make with the simpler tools available and he’s considered flavors that might seem intriguing, but not scandalous — he doesn't want to _épater les bourgeois_ , after all. Keeping it all a secret from Arthur has been the most challenging, but seeing Arthur is also working on his own secret, they’ve taken to researching in comfortable silence. 

They arrive in the same crowded, convivial cafe as before. This time, Cobb leaves first, saying he’s got a lot to do. They’ve set longer on the timer, all reassured by the previous time. Dreaming doesn’t have to carry the inevitability of danger anymore. 

“Where are you off to, darling?” he asks, murmuring the last word, conscious of where they are, and when.

Arthur arches a brow at him. “Meeting a supplier.”

“Oh yes?”

“You won't get me to reveal my secret, Eames, you know.” 

He knows, but he can't resist trying. “Ah well, must be off. I have supplies of my own to hunt down.” He’s going to a market, to buy the best fruit he can find. He and Arthur part at the cafe door. He feels a pang — no goodbye kiss here.

The market is a revelation, better than any farmers’ market he’s ever seen, the fruit perfectly fragrant, but not perfectly uniform. The plums he buys are intensely dark, with a silvery bloom. He bites into one as he walks to the restaurant, his mouth flooded with the sweet-bitter, clean-tasting juice.

The tart he makes, crème pâtissière over a crisp, buttery pastry, topped with the plums brushed in a syrup spiced with star anise, is exquisite, although he needed help managing the heat of a woodfired oven. If only he could take Arthur a slice, but they’ve agreed to keep their secrets a little longer. 

Arthur, when they meet at the cafe, has a bandage wrapped around his hand, but insists it’s nothing serious: “Just a little hazard of the job”, and of course, there’s no mark to be seen when they wake up.

“That was great!” says Cobb. “You know I picked Paris in 1891 because of the Eiffel Tower, don’t you? I climbed to the top. It was amazing.” But again a wistfulness falls over his face. “Mal took me up when we first met …” 

They agree to meet in two days to go under again. “Shall we visit the tower, too?” says Arthur.

“Yes, let’s. If we go for long enough, I’ll be able to show you what I’ve been working on.”

“Me too,” says Arthur, smiling a sort of secret smile.

“It’s a date, then.” 

They haven't dated, really, simply merged their lives, now they are together. They courted for so long without realizing it.

*

For their third visit, they agree to risk more than a day of dreamtime, even though it does feel dangerous in a way that mere hours has not. Although this playful fantasy has eased much of the terror of getting lost, they can't deny their nervousness. 

The night before, they don’t sleep, making love for hours, communicating things they _can_ say in words, but no longer _need_ to. They may not be able to be together like this in the dreamspace. 

“I’m not sure I’m ready to sleep without you,” Eames says as they lie quietly in the dawn light, Arthur’s head on his shoulder, hand roaming lazily over his chest. Arthur raises his head, his chin digging in. 

“In your lonely garret?” he says. “I’ll climb up the drainpipe and come join you. What do we care what dream-people think?” 

Eames laughs. “We don’t have to, do we? Cobb’s made it so real, I suppose I got a bit caught up in what’s allowed. Don’t want to rile up his subconscious, though.”

“Do you think we would?” says Arthur. “He doesn’t care.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t. I suppose I’m being too cautious. Losing my nerve!” 

He laughs to make light of it, but he does feel uncertain. It’s all very well going into this dream playground, but he wonders when he will be ready to do another proper job. Or if he ever will. And what then?

“I feel it too, Eames,” Arthur says, reading his thoughts, it seems. “I’m not sure when I’ll be ready to go back to how it was before.”

“We’ll figure it out,” says Eames, rolling Arthur over so he’s looking up at him, his hands pinned at his shoulders, and leaning down to kiss him, again and again, lingeringly. 

They’re startled by the phone. “You guys ready?” says Cobb.

“Give us an hour,” says Arthur, voice rough, and a little guilty-sounding. But his eyes are laughing.

Later, he doesn't let go of Eames’ hand after he slips in his line, and they fall asleep like that. 

*

In the smoky cafe, they’re holding hands across the table, and no one reacts. Outside in the street, they kiss before going their separate ways.

“See you at the Eiffel Tower this evening.”

“I’ll be waiting underneath.”

In the market, Eames looks for things he can make into a picnic. He spends all day cooking and baking, and wondering what Arthur is doing. As the sun begins to decline, he packs everything into a wicker basket, another plum tart right on top, and sets off for the tower. By the logic of dream geography, it’s not a long walk, thankfully.

Arthur is leaning against one of the iron structure’s massive legs, one ankle crossed over the other, a hand in his pocket, looking like a fashion plate. Eames doesn't feel nearly debonair enough for him, but Arthur’s eyes light up when he sees him. Eames sets the basket down and leans in. Arthur smells like himself, overlaid with something indefinable, something faintly … scorched? He must still look baffled when he leans away, because Arthur laughs.

“You’ll find out soon enough!”

“I have to confess, the suspense is killing me, love!”

“What’s this, Eames?” Arthur gestures at the hamper.

“Would you like to picnic with me?” 

The area around the tower isn't the verdant park it is in present-day Paris, but there’s a bench under a plane tree. Eames sets the hamper down on the ground and opens the lid. The plum tart is undamaged, and he lifts it carefully out.

“Wow,” says Arthur, “where did you get that? Wait, did you make it? That’s what you’ve been doing? Baking?” He looks entirely delighted. “Can I have a slice? I'm sure the rest is great, but that tart, I have to try it right now.”

Eames cuts a slice and holds it out to him, but Arthur grabs his wrist and bites into the fruit and pastry straight from his hand. 

“Fuck, Eames!” he says, muffled. When they’ve eaten the whole slice, bite for bite, Arthur licking the crumbs and spiced glaze off Eames’ fingers, he says: “I didn't know you could bake like that!”

“Well, it’s a dream skill, you know.”

“Like skiing?” Arthur laughs.

“A bit,” says Eames, blushing. “I was pretty good at that, too.”

“So I heard.” 

“You’re utterly competent in a dream, too, darling. The way you drove that cab, I still get shivers.”

They explore the rest of the picnic basket then, Arthur refusing a plate. There’s a lot of finger-licking and sighing. Finally, after another slice of the plum tart, he wipes away a last dab of crème pâtissière from the corner of Arthur’s mouth with his thumb, and says: “Well, that was my secret. Are you going to show me yours?”

“Mine’s not quite ready, yet. You can see tomorrow. Shall we go up and admire the view?” 

They leave the remains of the picnic and head for the tower. The sun has set and lights are beginning to glow in the summer twilight as they mount the iron stairs.

“Have you ever done this in reality?” says Arthur. “Mal took me up on my first time in Paris. Refused to take the elevator.” Arthur shakes himself, casting off the memory. They’re leaning against the railing now, looking out towards the river.

“This is the first time I’ve ever been,” says Eames. 

“You’ve never been up the Eiffel Tower?”

“Always been more interested in cafes than tourist hordes.” Eames shrugs. “This is perfect, coming here with you, like this.” 

They descend and wander the streets some more, stopping at a pavement cafe for a drink. Everyone they see is friendly and accommodating. It’s very disconcerting.

At last, when it's fully dark, they arrive at Eames’ flat, in that dream way, without knowing where they were going. The stairs are steep and it is the imagined tiny garret, of course. The bed’s big though.

“Are you going to make me breakfast?” asks Arthur in the morning, stretching in the sunlight falling through the glass doors that lead to a tiny balcony.

“Would you like to visit my kitchen?” offers Eames.

“And watch you cook? Of course!”

The restaurant kitchen is empty, and Eames cooks eggs and makes coffee. 

“Mmm,” says Arthur, “That was delicious, but I need another tart. You promised me a baking show.”

“I did, did I?” Eames steps into the cool larder to see what he can use. There are lemons, of course, and he never got a chance to make a _tarte au citron_. He brings out his ingredients.

Then he lifts Arthur up and sits him on the counter, prompting a somewhat undignified squawk. But Arthur grabs his shoulders and pulls him into the vee of his spread thighs and they kiss for long minutes. Finally, Arthur gives him a push and says: “Get off me, I need a tart!”

Eames raises an eyebrow but doesn't fall into that verbal trap, stepping aside to start delicately rubbing cold butter into silky flour. Arthur watches intently.

When the pastry is in the oven, he starts on the lemon filling, zesting and squeezing and whipping. 

“May I roll up your sleeves?” says Arthur, “I’m sure all that work’s doing amazing things to your forearms. Do you mind?”

Eames doesn't mind. He steps between Arthur’s thighs again and holds out his wrists. When Arthur tries to pull him in, though, he bats at him with floury hands, leaving a dusting of white across his cheekbone. “My crust will burn, darling!”

“The oven’s not all that’s hot in this kitchen,” Arthur murmurs as Eames turns back to his whipping, flexing self-consciously. This silly Arthur is delicious.

He bends down to take the tart shell out of the oven, pours the lemon filling in and returns it to bake, before swiping his finger round the bowl to scoop up leftovers that he offers to Arthur. He sucks Eames’ finger languorously, his eyes hooded.

“You’re very good at this,” he says, when he can speak again.

When the tart is baked, Eames sets it in the larder to cool. “We’ll eat it later,” he promises, “but now I want to see what you’ve been doing. You can't have all the fun.”

“I can't wait to show you,” says Arthur, grabbing his hand. “Come on, it’s just round the corner.” He leads Eames to a building nearby that is oddly familiar … it’s the place where they planned the Fischer job. Inside, a neat workbench stands under one of the huge windows, small tools lined up. Arthur unlocks a drawer and takes out something wrapped in a cloth, which he unfolds on the bench. Eames leans over his shoulder to see and catches a glimpse of something gleaming.

“Is that gold, darling?”

“It is.” But he doesn't explain any further, taking a small box out of the drawer. He slides it open and reveals two milky blue-green opals shot through with flashes of many colors. Pulling up a stool, and taking off his jacket, he is soon hunched over the bench, buffing two small oblongs of bright gold, still without explaining.

Eames is content to watch, as Arthur’s hair falls into his eyes and his tongue pokes out of his mouth in his absorption. He carefully smooths the edges of the golden rectangles, and then brings out a small blow torch that he uses to solder a tiny cup to each. Finally he nestles the opals inside the settings and carefully folds the edges up to hold the stones securely. 

The resulting objects are beautiful, the gold with a slightly beaten finish, the stones exquisitely understated.

“What are they, darling?” 

“Wait and see, Mr Eames.”

Arthur turns the oblongs over and solders short posts to the backs. They are cufflinks. But lovely as they are, they are not something Arthur is likely to wear.

“Come here.” Arthur turns from the bench. Eames steps up close and Arthur rolls down his sleeves, fastening them with the new cufflinks.

Arthur has never given him a gift like this. “They’re gorgeous.”

“I chose opals because their colors shift. Like your eyes. And you like color and patterned things.”

He is speechless. A gift like this, the product of Arthur’s imagination and skill, and of his understanding of Eames’ taste and of Eames himself, is astonishing.

“Hey,” says Arthur softly, “hey Eames. They’re just cufflinks.”

“No they’re not, darling. You made these specially for me.” His voice is rough and his eyes are wet. “You dazzle me with your imagination and competence, every day, you know.”

“And so do you.”

“I am always impressed by your creativity. Despite what people may think.”

“Really?” 

“You solve problems on every job. Anyone who can't see that is blind.”

“Yeah, well,” says Arthur, “everyone in the business knows you’re the best there is. Aren’t I the lucky one? You came home with me.”

“That took skill, darling. A careful campaign!”

“As I said, you’re the best. And I’m an astute judge.”

Arthur leans in, grinds against Eames. “Fuck, Eames.”

“Yes.”

There’s hours left on the PASIV timer. Time to go back to the garret, time to stroll hand in hand, time to eat lemon tart and suck the sweet sourness from each other’s fingers. 

They’re too absorbed to notice time passing, but when they hear: 

“And when I touch you  
I feel happy inside …”

They wake up in their spare room, hand in hand. Cobb is smiling at them from the other chair, and he seems happy too.

*

There’s a big box on the porch when they come home from a walk a day or two later. Arthur has been ordering things. A bright red stand mixer and a range of baking pans. And in a smaller box, the tools he needs.

The gold and precious stones arrive later, and Arthur sets up a workbench in the spare room. “You didn't think that was just a dream gift, did you?” 

In the late afternoons, he likes to sit on the kitchen counter and watch Eames whipping and baking, accepting tastes from his fingers.

Competence has many rewards.


End file.
